


Salt

by Chekhov



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Zoscar if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhov/pseuds/Chekhov
Summary: Since their arrival in Japan, it's only taken Wilde a few days to find trouble - and who else to come to his rescue but the ever-reluctant dwarf? Unfortunately (for them, but fortunately for you, dear reader) it will take some quick thinking, extravagant lying, and collaborative pretending-to-be-exes to get out of this particular mess.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 7
Kudos: 74





	Salt

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing RQG fic, but definitely won't be the last.
> 
> This fic is less of a tale of romance and more a study in overly familiar quibbling and how the ability to argue about anything and everything can sometimes get you and your friend out of a sticky situation. I'm here to have fun, and I value only humor (and puns).
> 
> Timeline-wise, it's meant to take place several days after Wilde's crew, including Zolf, arrives at the Inn in Japan.

* * *

“And how, exactly do you know this man?”

The ocean is an ever-changing thing. Zolf Smith knows this. 

It’s the rocking of the waves on a calm, clear day, gentle as a mother. It’s the thrashing of a storm, tides asunder, tearing you every which way.

There are rules for navigating the fickle oceans, countless ones. Among them, one that has been soaked into Zolf - do not swim against the current. Turn, circumvent. Read the water. 

He clears his throat now and his eyes sweep the room - reading. It’s a common enough picture this side of the shoreline: an abandoned inn, a half-rotten mess that can now only be considered a ‘building’ in the loosest terms. The rows of screen doors just barely stifle the sound of pattering rain and tremble every time a gust of wind knocks into what’s left of the walls. There’s the remains of the straw mats lining the floor, and something resembling a tapestry on the far wall. As far as clues go, this place offers none.

To the assembly, then. There are five men - human men - and they are dressed in the well-worn garb of local fishermen. They are not nobility, nor upper class. They hold themselves without fear, and they hold their tools in their hands - and against their victim’s throat - in a way that assures Zolf they have used them for gutting more than one land-dweller. 

Speaking of the land-dweller - he is a lighthouse, a contrasting splatter of color against their washed-out browns and navy blues. Kneeling on the floor with a suspicious lack of mud on his trousers - that would have been the first strike against him, surely. Dressing like a garish peacock and coming around talking to the natives in his usual cant couldn’t have won him many favors with the starved, storm-beaten peoples who were already beginning to point fingers at anyone they could manage to spot between the sloughs of water pulverizing their shores, preventing them from going out and getting any catching done. 

He’s seen that crazed look in people’s faces before - back in Dover. He knows when they near their breaking point, when peace stops being an option and starts being a favor you have to win. 

“Let’s just all calm down,” says Zolf - optimistically. Stupidly. 

He sees the men immediately shift their clutches on their knives, and not in a friendly way. Perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that language potion, he thinks belatedly. Being able to speak Japanese seemed like a boon, but now he’s reminded of the reason he was never involved in negotiations and the idea seems less than genius.

“I’ll ask you again,” the leader grunts. “Who are you, and why do you want him? Rather, why should we give him to you?”

Zolf puts up his hands, showing his empty palms. “We’re on the same side,” he assures them. “I don’t want to fight you. I just want... him.” He indicates with his chin to the man they’ve got in their clutches. “To take him off your hands, as it were.”

Wilde looks up at him.

Well, no, that’s not quite right. What Wilde does is toss his hair in a graceful arc, only to have it immediately flop back in his face again, but artistically this time. Even without casting Prestidigitation, the effect is perfect. 

For a second, Zolf sympathises with the men in the hut. Clocking a posh man as the root of their problems is a feeling Zolf can relate to. They’re down on their luck, and having upper-class bastards wandering around asking questions is not something they would look kindly to. No wonder they’ve gone and grabbed him up to use as collateral. 

Then he shakes himself out of it. 

Right, they’re here on a mission. They need Wilde back.

Preferably without upsetting the locals. 

“Why do you want ‘im?” one of the men on the left grunts. “You ‘is friend? Don’ look like it.”

Zolf opens his mouth and closes it again. For a moment, he looks down at himself, and realises something new. He resembles these fishermen far more than he does Wilde. For all they know, he  _ is  _ on their side.

_ Turn the sail into the wind _ . 

“Friend? Not the word I would use. He’s wronged me,” he says. “I’m looking for revenge.” And he’s technically telling the truth. Stretched and reshaped into what they need to get out of here, but it is. Wilde has wronged him, on more than one occasion. And yes, he is looking for revenge. Not against Wilde, but those two sentences were separate. Therefore, not technically a lie.

This, it appears, was the right thing to say. The men, having familiarized themselves with Wilde’s personality, are more than ready to believe it. Most of them are shrugging and muttering in something resembling understanding, even a hint of sympathy.

One - the leader - is less gullible. “Is that so?” he asks. “A likely story. That’s convenient, isn’t it? And how, prey tell, has he wronged you?”

There’s an inaudible screech of the track. The plan stutters and skips in its baby steps, and almost falls flat on its face. Zolf has never been a particularly eloquent storyteller. “That’s my business, isn’t it?” he replies instead, aiming to avoid the matter.

“In that case, you won’t mind how we deal with him, only that we do.” He turns the knife and slides the blunt side against Wilde’s throat. There is a pulse there, accented against the metal, and it has kept a beat steady enough to keep an orchestra going. Wilde is thus far undisturbed by the danger he’s in. “He’s been goin’ around snoopin’ in the docks,” explains the leader to Zolf. “And we plan to make sure that whoever hired him won’t be gettin’ the message. You don’t happen to know who that is, do you? Would save all of us an awful lot of trouble.” The man’s gaze slips back to Zolf, clearly distrustful. Clearly expecting a plot from him - or from Wilde - or from both of them. 

This is where it gets tricky. Having only arrived in the country a day prior, Zolf is more than aware of their lack of local knowledge. They’ve not gotten their bearings, they’ve just barely begun to understand the subtle politics at play in these townships and villages. They know that there is tension among the taxing, ruling classes and the lower ones who are suffering from their pressure in some parts of the country. There’s talk of someone named Shoin further up the coast who’s been increasingly eager to exercise his power in order to get more out of those who have less. Their distrust in outsiders is more than reasonable. 

“He’s not who you think he is,” Zolf blurts, desperate.

“And who do we think he is?” growls another of the fishermen.

“He’s not a spy for that... Shoin bastard,” Zolf explains. He glances around at them, checking for a reaction. They are tense, still distrustful. “He’s not here to gather information from you - he’s just an idiot. A foreign idiot.”

“Then what do YOU want with him?” the leader demands, pressing the knife under Wilde’s jaw even harder. The bard tenses as the tip of the fillet pierces the skin, and a drop of blood rolls down the curved blade. “If you’re not his buddy come to get him outta trouble, then what is this about? Is he a criminal you’re after? If he is, give me a reason not to kill him now. It would serve the same purpose, would it not? You can’t protest that.”

Zolf opens his mouth, fishing uselessly for an excuse, any excuse. 

Once again, he wishes he had the skills that Hamid did when it came to deescalation. At this point, even Bertie’s blunt-ended intimidation would have been desirable. But no - those things are no longer available to him as options. Wilde is one of the few people he’s managed to hang on to. He cannot afford to lose anyone else.

The words slip out before he can even finish thinking them:

“He’s my ex-lover.”

There’s a pause, as he expected. The men glance at each other, then at Wilde, then at Zolf again. Then at Wilde again. 

Wilde, to his credit, hides whatever shock he is feeling deep underneath a very careful mask of casual indifference. Is he surprised by the turn of events? Annoyed? Delighted? The fact that it’s impossible to tell is a feather in his hat. 

“Really?” asks the man in the back suspiciously. He’s the one holding Wilde’s arms. In any other circumstances it would be a foolish way to restrain a bard, but credit where credit is due - that hasn’t stopped them from successfully capturing him. It doesn’t help that he’s helpless in those shackles. 

Zolf’s attention is snapped back to the men when they speak again: “You and him?” one asks, clearly befuddled. It’s difficult to discern why they are unconvinced. Are they hesitant to believe that someone as scoffy as the spoilt cat they’re holding by the scruff of the neck would go for the mess of a dwarf before them? Or is it rather that Zolf is not being particularly convincing? He tries to pretend that it’s the latter, that it’s  _ his _ standards that would be too high to accomodate someone as intolerable as Oscar Wilde.

“Yes, I uh.” Zolf shifts on his feet, tries to adopt the same air of nonchalance as Wilde has. Then he realizes that it probably isn’t suitable to the lie they’re trying to spin. “We were together. And now we’re not. Because we broke up.”  _ Excellent, yes, that  _ is _ how relationships work. Great job, Zolf, _ he thinks to himself bitingly. “Which is why, as I said, we want the same thing. To see him gone. But for me, it’s personal. I want some payback.”

“Payback...?” asks the younger man on the side-lines, seemingly more invested in this story now.

“Yes,” says Zolf. “Like I said, I want revenge. For what he did to me.”

The men exchange a few confounded glances. “What did he do to you?” the youngest one finally asks with innocent curiosity.

Zolf is fumbling for an answer, desperately looking through his internal library of romance novels to draw inspiration from, when the rescue he didn’t ask for comes from the back:

“What  _ didn’t _ I do?” Wilde says, and there’s just barely the hint of an amused smirk on his lips.

“Shut up, I don’t need your help,” Zolf snaps, all the while knowing that this poking fun is frustratingly effective for giving their story a realistic spin. He is loath to see it through to the end, but it does provide a reasonable hook. He bites, fully aware he’s about to be dragged out of his element. “See? He’s always like this. This is why I broke up with him.”

“ _ You _ broke up with  _ me _ ?” Wilde seems genuinely insulted. “Your memory is as faulty as ever.”

“My memory is excellent,” counters Zolf hurriedly. Then he realizes that he will have to defend his bluff. “I’m not the one who forgot our...”  _ Come on, Zolf, think! What would Harrison Cambell say? _ “...anniversary.”

The men’s heads swivel back to Wilde, who looks unperturbed. “It wasn’t even our anniversary,” he replies immediately. “Trying to call it as such is a ridiculous fantasy I was unwilling to entertain - for your own good!”

“How dare you,” Zolf growls, but he’s stalling for time because the men have turned to him once again. His brain is alight with every single story he’s ever read, picking them apart for details and hurriedly reconstructing them into something resembling a realistic relationship two people might have if they were both stupid enough to make as many bad decisions as Jennifer and her lover. “I planned that... that entire night for us. Romantic candle-lit dinner and all. I could have taken that job back up north and gone there, earned back my fortune but no, you insisted we visit your friends instead! And where did that get us?”

Wilde is visibly struggling to make heads or tails of the conversation. “Where, pray tell?” he volleys, clearly expecting Zolf to keep up the charade on his own. 

For once, Zolf is ready. This is a part he’s read and reread over and over again. He can recite it by heart if need be. “I’ll tell you where. To the attic in a haunted inn, with the army hot on our tails! And you didn’t even bother to cover your tracks - spent all your time partying away our savings because you couldn’t resist the call to vengeance! I told you, so many times, that it’s a worthless pursuit! My inheritance as royalty was slipping through my fingers and you only thought to use me for your selfish stride in popularity!”

One of the men - who had, until this moment, been holding a knife under Wilde’s throat - has removed it in order to listen more intently. He turns to his friend next to him and mutters: “Isn’t that the plot of--” but is quickly shushed by his companions. 

Wilde rolls his eyes, ever the actor. “It’s ridiculous to blame me for that. Our interests did not intersect, it’s true, but why should I be responsible for your issues?”

“Your carelessness nearly put Jennifer in a coma!” Zolf accuses hotly. “She could have died!”

“The illness was never real; it was a metaphor,” Wilde ricochets, and then pauses as if realizing he’s said something incriminating. Zolf doesn’t process it quickly enough, however, too caught up in their fake fight which is quickly gaining a flavor of real conflict that they’re both very familiar with. 

“It was a life threatening situation!”

“She was faking it.”

“Was not!”

“I think you’ll find--”

“I’ll find that the relationship wasn’t working out because you’re absolutely insufferable!” Zolf growls. He throws his arms up in frustration and no part of this is an act - he doesn’t have to lie to complain about Wilde. There’s plenty of material for him to use that doesn’t involve novels. “All you’ve ever done is poke fun and stick your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“I was merely trying to add a little bit of spark to your soggy life, Mr. Smith,” Wilde continues, looking hurt - but there’s a disgusting, cheerful glint in his eye. “And if I remember correctly, my poking of various extremities was the highlight of many an evening...”

Zolf takes a second to pinch the bridge of his nose, and gives thanks to whatever gods he hasn’t made enemies of that the men in the room are too slow on the uptake to realize what has been said.

He points and glares at Wilde, trying, with all his might, to mutely communicate the words ‘you’ve gone too far’ (a concept which would never be familiar to Oscar short of the unlikely event that he were propelled to the far future and become intimate with the use of a GPS device). “You have been nothing but a nuisance since the day we’ve met. In fact,  _ starting _ with the day we met you and your poor decisions--”

“ _ Must _ you keep bringing this up?” Oscar groans tiredly, rolling his eyes and tossing his hair once more for good measure. “That particular decision was in a complex financial situation, but in no way poor, I’ll have you know--”

Zolf breaks his angry pointing and glaring to indulge in an eye-roll of his own. “If you’re talking about Bertie, then you have no idea how deep he was in...” Halfway through he stops to abandon the endeavor because Wilde is visibly restraining himself from making another pun. Not that he has to - Zolf is practically doing the work for him. “Don’t. Don’t say it. I don’t want to know.”

“Who’s Bertie?” one of the men whispers, and is immediately cuffed by his friend next to him.

“Look, just give him to me,” Zolf cuts in again, ignoring the protesting annoyance in favor of seeking sympathy from his captors. “I’m gonna take him out of the way and beat him to a pulp. In a forest, or maybe just out to the shore and drown him. He won’t bother you again - or me. We’ll all be happy.”

Once again, the men in the room confer with silent glances. They don’t appear to be sold. Finally, one looks back at Zolf. “ _ Really? _ ” he asks.

“What do you mean  _ ‘really’ _ !?” Zolf glances between them. “Look, you want him off your hands, don’t you? Out of your village? I’m giving you want you want - which is coincidentally what I want. Him - gone! No longer your problem! And no longer  _ my _ problem,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Can you really go through with that?” This time it’s one of the older men that speaks.

The dwarf's eyebrows drop. “What?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I?”

The men glance between themselves once more. It’s the younger one that decides to take the burden.

“You still seem... quite attached to him,” he says meekly. 

There’s a beat of silence, during which Wilde is physically shaking. To the casual observer, he might be scared for his life. To Zolf’s trained eye, he knows that the bard is on the verge of bursting into laughter.

“Attached?!” he sputters. “To  _ him _ ? What’s there to be attached to?  _ Look _ at him!” Zolf gestures and then, a second too late, realizes his own folly when Wilde smiles winningly at the attention he is immediately drenched in. The youngest fisherman seems rather appreciative. The rest, although miffed, are begrudgingly not seeing Zolf’s point. “Alright, nevermind, maybe that’s not--I meant more as in the--Not his face,  _ that _ part’s fine--”

“Fine?” exclaims Oscar, affronted. “ _ Fine _ ?” he repeats, and begins to suddenly struggle against the binds he’s in. “And you would attempt to blame  _ me  _ on our separation? Would you also blame a barnacle for not sticking to an abrasive surface, Mr. Smith? Would you also fault a keg for rolling off the side of a ship after it has capsized?”

“Capsized?” echoes Zolf incredulously. “You calling me a capsized ship, you utter keg--”

“Your ability to summarize my statements without adding anything to them remains an iconic study in futility! I was attempting to communicate using the only vocabulary you might be familiar with, but if you wish to expand your horizons to new metaphors, you can feel free! The brief spark of creativity may even inspire me to loathe you slightly less!”

“Oh, very clever,” seethes Zolf. “The most shocking part about this is that you would actively take steps to lessen any amount of loathing in an interpersonal relationship! Seeing as you frequently use people’s dislike of you as fuel!”

Suddenly, Wilde is free. There is no telling how it happens - neither Zolf nor the fishermen are watching too closely because as soon as they have realized it, Wilde is rushing towards him.

They crash - it seems to happen in slow motion. Oscar is light on his feet - and when he catches and heaves the entire bard over his head, he realizes that the rest of him is similarly afflicted. From there, it is relatively easy to weigh his options - and promptly catapult the entire man through the creaky door directly behind him.

There’s a crash outside and sputtering swearwords, but it’s more of a signal that Wilde is, in fact, alive, than a cause for concern. It’s also a cue to exit - so the cleric, without giving the fisherman a second glance, follows him out through the sliding door as one might dive through a porthole. 

All at once, the rain swallows him up, drenches him entirely, and there are several seconds of disorientation before he lands on the slick ground outside. Squinting through the sheets of falling water, he finds the similarly wet Wilde struggling to stand a few feet away. Before he can, Zolf rushes him and, locking his hands around the skinny waist, runs them both towards the incline leading down to the beach. Their feet lose purchase almost immediately and soon they are not so much running as slipping down the hill, rolling over moss and gravel and tumbling in an ungainly heap at the bottom, at least 200 meters below.

The rain continues to fall. Further down the slope there is the crash of ocean waves, a roaring white noise. For a blissful few seconds, everything is still.

Zolf lifts his head first, checks their surroundings and then looks down to Wilde, who is attempting to orient his own knees and elbows into a generally collective direction. He appears to be in one piece, although exceptionally annoyed to be lying in what is essentially a miniature tidepool.

“Ya bastard! That’ll teach you!” Zolf yells over his shoulder, up the hill towards the hut.

Wilde gives him a soggy thumbs-up, wipes the mud from his eyes, and flips his hair up and out of his face. “Excellent plan, Zolf,” he says, voice on the precipice of sarcasm and sincerity. “If it weren’t for your quick thinking, we would both still be dry.”

“And you would be lacking a few pints of blood,” Zolf remarks. 

He begins to get up, and almost starts to succeed when a hand shoots out - and grabs the collar of his coat with far more force than he would have anticipated given the man’s lack of muscle. The shock factor does most of the work, and before he can think to resist, he is pulled, almost bodily, on top of Wilde. There’s barely enough time to react and slam his hands down, holding himself a few inches above the other. 

“What the bloody hell are you--”

But Oscar shushes him - and continues to look up just past Zolf’s shoulder, as if he’s noticed something. “Don’t move,” he mutters. “They’re at the top of the hill.”

Zolf sighs loudly through his nose. He knows they won’t be heard over the downpour of the rain, but visibility isn’t bad enough to hide them at this range. If they leg it now, the fishermen might still try a pursuit - and with speed as the game, he will surely lose the gamble. 

“They’re not coming down, just watching,” Wilde murmurs again and closes his eyes. “Pretend I’m dead.”

Zolf raises an eyebrow. A drop of water slides down the tip of his nose and drops directly onto Wilde’s cheek. “...’scuse me?”

“Pretend I’m dead,” Wilde repeats, and then his mouth quirks as he elaborates. “But pretend to be  _ sad _ about it, if you could.”

Zolf huffs in annoyance. He wants to risk checking over his shoulder, but that might give it away. “This is your grand plan?” he asks, as dryly as possible given their current predicament. “A tragic play? Pull on their heartstrings?”

“Well you’ve already gotten them invested in the story, Mr. Smith. They think you’re still attached. I’m only following your lead.”

“My lead was supposed to turn into taking you hostage and walking out of there, preferably with your hands still tied.”

“I’m not entirely opposed to the idea, but it’s a little late for foreplay.”

“Not appreciating the jokes,” Zolf growls.

“They’re looking for a resolution, a reason to leave us alone,” Wilde continues, unperturbed. “That reason would be you breaking down in sobs over my broken body, believing you’ve accidentally killed me and now thoroughly regret it.”

“You want me to fake-cry over your fake-death?”

“Or kiss me,” Wilde murmurs. “Whichever is easier.”

Zolf fights the urge to lower his head towards Wilde’s - at great speed, in order to slam their skulls together and jostle whatever passes for brain cells in the bard’s prefrontal cortex. 

The man is unmoving beneath him - to the casual observer (one located a convenient 200 meters uphill from them) he does appear relatively lifeless. His hair is stuck to his forehead in muddy streaks, and his jaw is lax, lips parted. His chest is barely moving. 

He is waiting.

He is not, as the men have remarked, bad-looking. It’s not a matter of aesthetic, or pride. It’s a matter of principal. And perhaps if he still had a god to follow, Zolf might ask it for advice. 

But now... what does he have left? Nothing much. Nothing left to lose.

Except this.

Something warm, equally anticipatory, coils like a spring in the cleric’s chest.

Zolf hesitates - and leans in.

And bellows, with as much volume as he can muster, a mere inch from Wilde’s face:

“NO!!” 

To Wilde’s credit, although it’s clear he is fighting the urge to flinch and grimace, his features remain unmoving. “Good lord,” he hisses through his teeth - and then tenses further when Zolf grabs him by the lapels and shakes him theatrically. 

“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!” he wails.

“Absolutely not,” Wilde chokes out, struggling to remain ragdoll. “For the love of--Alright, enough, I think they bought it,  _ enough _ , I said, I’ll--” He reaches out suddenly, and grabs Zolf’s shoulders to steady him. When they fall still and lock eyes again, he is visibly frazzled. “Point taken.”

“Are you sure?” Zolf asks, lifting an eyebrow. “We can continue. I know how much you love a good performance.”

“Zolf,” Wilde grinds out. 

“Oscar,” the cleric counters, and they both hold their gazes steady until finally the tension rolls off of them, washed out by the steady downpour of water. Wilde glances up again. “They’re gone,” he informs curtly. “Your acting is more convincing than I anticipated. No-- _ No, _ please don’t feel the need to continue.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Zolf replies and releases him. 

Another glance over his shoulder confirms what Wilde said - the top of the hill is blissfully empty of observers. It seems that the danger, at least for the time being, has passed, although there’s no telling what the long-term consequences of such a dramatic meeting will be. If they’re not careful, the rumors may spread up the coast. There’s no way to predict where the story of their ‘lover’s quarrel’ will go from here, but he knows the speed and tenacity of gossip is a universal constant, independent of linguistics and geography. If they’re lucky, their squabble will fade into anonymity, or perhaps be mistaken for an urban legend before it reaches the gnomish settlements up north of their inn. 

He does not offer a hand up when he stands, but Wilde grabs his shoulder to use as support anyway. “They may still try to get down to us,” he says. “So we should leave.”

“Leaving! If only I’d thought of that.”

Without waiting for any more witty retorts, Zolf begins to walk. By the time the bard finishes fussing with his stained sleeves he is already trudging ahead, step by step, through the mudslide leading back towards the road. 

They stay close to the line of trees, hoping that the torrential storm will hide them with its sheets of water. And indeed it seems to work - after half an hour of a more hurried pace they make it out to a side road and begin their slow trek back towards their inn. The rain lets up the further they get from shore, and eventually it is merely a heavy drizzle instead of a downpour. Their footsteps slow to a more conservative pace, and they stop checking over their shoulders as often. 

Wilde is the first to break the silence.

“All things considered, I do believe I owe you a word of thanks.” 

“You don’t say?” Zolf snorts. 

Wilde takes it in stride. “That was quite the predicament you got us out of.”

“Quite the predicament you got yourself into,” Zolf corrects. 

“I was fully aware of the risks involved, and by my estimations, things could have gone much, much worse. I didn’t realize I would upset them so much, or indeed be caught. I was merely trying to do my job.” 

“They were trying to do their jobs, too,” Zolf protests. “Protecting their community from what they - quite understandably - thought was a threat.”

“I don’t hold it against them.” 

Zolf glances up, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. “ _ Really? _ ”

Wilde pauses for a beat, allowing his squelching footfalls fill in the silence. “Well...” he says a few seconds later, “my opinion of sea-men  _ may  _ have suffered slightly.” He glances down at Zolf. There’s the slightest quirk to his lips. “Thankfully, the reserves of that fondness are... deep enough to survive the blow.”

It is at this point that Zolf makes the mistake of presuming sincerity. “Deep? Since when have you in any way been fond of se--” The double entendre breaches his dock too late, and he realizes that he’s already let himself be hooked. “Oh, for the love of...” He glares up through his wet, sagging eyebrows at the other. “Are you done?”

Wilde smiles brilliantly and, for only a second, it seems like the sun has finally come out.

“Are you done?” Zolf repeats again, more forcefully. “Because if you want to keep going, I can still make good on my promise to them!”

“Drowning me? I think I’ll pass, Mr. Smith, it’s not really my cup of tea, though I don’t judge. Perhaps another time. But thank you for the offer.” He thinks again, and then adds, with a touch more sincerity: “And for saving me, much as it may have wounded your pride.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Zolf, and then glares sidelong. “No, I’m serious. Don’t mention it. Ever.”

Wilde smiles and says nothing.

At the end of the road, from between the rolling fog, the inn comes into view. 

For at least one more day, they are home safe.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> If you need me, I'll be in my hammock. Come yell about these idiots.
> 
> I'm [ @thechekhov ](http://thechekhov.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
